ne。 He made it； but by the time the final buzzer honked and put an end to the affair （the Tigers had lost gaudily）； he had been floating in a kind of happy dream。 Halfway down the corridor to the boys' locker room； his legs had given out and down he had gone； with a silly smile still on his face； while his teammates； clad in their red travelling unis； laughed and cheered and clapped and whistled。
No one to clap or whistle here； only the steady crackle…and…stutter of gunfire off to the east。 Slowing a little bit now； maybe； but still heavy。
More ominous were the occasional gunshots from up ahead。 Maybe from Gosselin's？ It was impossible to tell。
He heard himself singing his least favorite Polling Stones song； 'Sympathy for the Devil' （Made damn sure that Pilate washed his hands and sealed His fate； thank you very much； you've been a wonderful audience； good night）； and made himself stop when lie realized the song had gotten all mixed up with memories of Jonesy in the hospital； Jonesy as he had looked last March； not just gaunt but somehow reduced； as if his essence had pulled itself in to form a protective shield around his surprised and outraged body。 Jonesy had looked to Henry like someone who was probably going to die； and although he hadn't died； Henry realized now that it was around that time that his own thoughts of suicide had bee really serious。 To the rogues gallery of images that haunted him in the middle of the night blue…white milk running down his father's chin； Barry Newman's giant economy…sized buttocks jiggling as he flew from the office； Richie Grenadeau holding out a dog…turd to the weeping and nearly naked Duddits Cavell； telling him to eat it； he had to eat it … there was now the image of Jonesy's too…thin face and addled eyes； Jonesy who had been swopped into the street without a single rhyme or reason； Jonesy who looked all too ready to put on his boogie shoes and get out of town。 They said he was in stable condition； but Henry had read critical in his old fi7iend's eyes。 Sympathy for the devil？ Please。 There was no god； no devil； no sympathy。 And once you realized that； you were in trouble。 Your days as a viable； paying customer in the great funhouse that was Kulture Amerika were numbered。
He heard himself signing it again … But what's puzzling you is the nature of my game … and made himself stop it。 What； then？ Something really Undress。 Mindless and pointless and tasty； something just oozing Kulture Amerika。 How about that one by the Pointer Sisters？ That was a good one。
Looking down at his shuffling skis and the horizontal crimps left by the snowmobile treads； he began to sing it。 Soon he was droning it over and over in a whispery； tuneless monotone while the sweat soaked through his shirts and clear mucus ran from his nose to freeze on his upper lip： 'I know we can make it； I know we can； we can work it out； yes we can…can yes we can yes we can 。 。 。'
Better。 Much better。 All those yes we can…cans were as Amerikan Kulture as a Ford pickup in a bowling alley parking lot； a lingerie sale at JC Penney； or a dead rock star in a bathtub。
9
And so he eventually returned to the shelter where he had left Pete and the woman。 Pete was gone。 No sign of him at all。
The rusty tin roof of the lean…to had fallen； and Henry lifted it； peeking under it like a metal bedsheet to make sure Pete wasn't there。 He wasn't； but the woman was。 She had crawled or been moved from where she'd been when Henry set out for Hole in the Wall； and somewhere along the line she'd e down with a bad case of dead。 Her clothes and face were covered with the rust…colored mold that had choked the cabin； but Henry noticed an interesting thing： while the growth on her was doing pretty well （especially in her nostrils and her visible eye； which had sprouted a jungle）； the stuff which had spread out from her； outlining her body in a ragged sunburst； was in trouble。 The fungus behind her； on the side blocked from the fire； had turned gray and stopped spreading。 The stuff in front of her was doing a little better … it had had warmth； and ground to grow on which had been melted clear of snow … but the tips of the tendrils were turning the powdery gray of volcanic ash。
Henry was pretty sure it was dying。
So was the daylight … no question of that now。 Henry dropped the rusty piece of corrugated tin back on the body of Becky Shue and on the embery remains of the fire。 Then he looked at the track of the Cat again； wishing as he had back at the cabin that he had Natty Bumppo with him to explain what he was seeing。 Or maybe Jonesy's good friend Hercule Poirot； he of the little gray cells。
The track swerved in toward the collapsed roof of the lean…to before continuing on northwest toward Gosselin's。 There was a pressed…down area in the snow that almost made the shape of a human body。 To either side； there were round divots in the snow。
'What do you say； Hercule？' Henry asked。 'What means this； mon ami？' But Hercule said nothing。
Henry began to sing under his breath again and leaned closer to one of the round divots； unaware that he had left the Pointer Sisters behind and switched back to the Rolling Stones。
There was enough light for him to see a pattern in the three dimples to the left of the body shape； and he recalled the patch on the right elbow of Pete's duffel coat。 Pete had told him with an odd sort of pride that his girlfriend had sewed that on there； declaring he had no business going off hunting with a ripped jacket。 Henry remembered thinking it was sad and funny at the same time； how Pete had built up a wistful fantasy of a happy future from that single act of kindness 。 。 。 an act which probably had more to do； in the end； with how the lady in question had been raised than with any feelings she might have for her beer…soaked boyfriend。
Not that it mattered。 What mattered was that Henry felt he could draw a bona fide deduction at last。 Pete had crawled out from under the collapsed roof Jonesy … or whatever was now running Jonesy； the cloud … had e along； swerved over to the remains of the lean…to； and picked Pete up。
Why？
Henry didn't know。
Not all of the splotches in the flattened shape of his thrashing friend； who had crawled out from under the piece of tin by hooking himself along on his elbows； were that mold stuff。 Some of it was dried blood。 Pete had been hurt。 Cut when the roof fell in？ Was that all？
Henry spotted a wavering trail leading away from the depression which had held Pete's body。 At the end of it was what he first took to be a fire…charred stick。 Closer examination changed his mind。 It was another of the weasel things； this one burned and dead； now turning gray where it wasn't seared。 Henry flipped it aside with the toe of his boot。 Beneath it was a small frozen mass。 More eggs。 It must have been laying them even as it died。
Henry kicked snow over both the eggs and the little monster's corpse； shuddering。 He unwrapped the makeshift bandage for another look at the wound on his leg； and as he did it he realized what song was ing out of his mouth。 He quit singing。 New snow； just a scattering of light flakes； began to skirt down。
'Why do I keep singing that？' he asked。 'Why does that fucking song keep ing back？'
He expected no answer； these were questions uttered aloud mostly for the fort of hearing his own voice （this was a death place； perhaps even a haunted place）； but one came anyway。
'Because it's our song。 It's the Squad Anthem； the one we play when we go in hot。 We're Cruise's boys。' Cruise？ Was that right？ As in Tom Cruise？ Maybe not quite。
The gunfire from the east was much lighter now。 The slaughter of the animals was almost done。 But there were men； a long skirmish line of hunters who were wearing green or black instead of orange； and they were listening to that song over and over again as they did their work； adding up the numbers of an incredible butcher's bill： I rode a tank； held a general's rank； when the blitzkrieg raged and the bodies stank 。 。 。 Pleased to meet you； hope you guess my name。
What exactly was going on here？ Not in the wild； wonderful； wacky Outside World； but inside his own head？ He'd had flashes of understanding his whole life … his life since Duddits； anyway … but nothing like this。 What was this？ Was it time to examine this new and powerful way of seeing the line？
No。 No； no； no。
And； as if mocking him； the song in his head： general's rank； bodies stank。
'Duddits！' he exclaimed in the graying； dying afternoon； lazy flakes falling like feathers from a split pillow。 Some thought struggled to be born but it was too big； too big。
'Duddits！' he cried again in his hortatory eggman's voice； and one thing he did understand： the luxury of suicide had been denied him。 Which was the most horrible thing of all； because these weird thoughts … I shouted out who killed the Kennedys … were tearing him apart。 He began to weep again； bewildered and afraid； alone in the woods。 All his friends except Jonesy were dead； and Jonesy was in the hospital。 A movie star in the hospital with Mr Gray。
'What does that mean？' Henry groaned。 He clapped his hands to his temples （he felt as tho